


Somewhere To Call Home

by thefrogg



Series: Abandoned Works from LJ [4]
Category: Stargate Atlantis
Genre: Amnesia, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-04
Updated: 2013-03-04
Packaged: 2017-12-04 06:17:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,756
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/707477
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thefrogg/pseuds/thefrogg
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She is  Runner with no memories of home.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

"I am a Runner," she says, weary and warning. The people must know the danger following her. "I cannot stay, the Wraith are coming for me."

"The Wraith are not here yet," the townspeople say, and lead her to the inn. They make her sit, put food in front of her, thick stew and warm bread. 

She is hungry, and cannot afford to refuse their generosity; by the time she sops up the last of the gravy with a crust of bread, a heavy canvas duffel bag sits on the table next to her, packed with supplies. "I cannot pay for this--"

"No, ma'am," says the mayor's son. His sister is stuffing a belt pouch with trail rations, spiced jerky and granola sticks and dried fruit. "There are people who can help you. I know you can't stay, but you could leave a message." He holds out a quill and parchment. "Can you write?"

"I...yes, I can write." She doesn't know why, or how, or when she learned, but she knows she can.

_I am a Runner. I was told you can help me._

~~~

The planets blur together, gate addresses spilling through her mind. There is nothing from Before, just the great pain and awakening with the need to survive, to search.

What she searches for remains a mystery.

~~~

She tries to make the rations last, feeding herself from foraged greens and berries and eggs scavenged from birds' nests. Afraid to endanger others, she sticks to uninhabited worlds.

Foraging becomes impossible after she sprains her ankle, as if the rainstorm didn't make her miserable enough. It's all she can do just to stay ahead of the Wraith, hobbling along with the help of a tree branch large enough to be unwieldy.

~~~

Hunger gnaws at her gut by the time she can walk easily, and she heads for a planet she knows should be in late summer, forage easy to find in the woods near the gate.

She finds three men there, dusty and less than civilized. "I am a Runner," she says, meeting their eyes.

The rest of her warning remains unsaid at their hungry looks and leering grins.

_There are no lines when it comes to survival,_ she remembers from somewhere, and squares her shoulders.

It is over quickly, and she leaves them in sated slumber to ransack their supplies, taking the promised provisions, and more besides: two knives, scratched but serviceable; an energy pistol, the smallest of the three and still a bit large for her hands; two waterskins and a belt to carry them on.

She stays too long, dawn pink on the horizon before the gate opens. She can come back for the rest.

~~~

With the Wraith occupied if only momentarily, she goes back to that first planet, unable to help herself. She has to know.

The town still stands, and the people welcome her again.

The Wraith did not come.

She can't help but think they know what she's done, and cannot regret it, either. She can only hope she never remembers Before, because she doesn't think that woman would be able to live with her.

"We sent your message," the mayor's son says. "They are looking for you."

"Thank you. I..." She stops, stricken, unable to say anything else.

In the end, she leaves another note.

_I am a Runner. I was told you can help me._

She can't bring herself to write the rest, but she remembers it for later.

_I bargained in desperation, and left them for the Wraith._

~~~

Populated planets are no longer avoided now, but she limits them to visits of a few hours.

"I am a Runner," she says on her arrival, giving them the choice. "The Wraith will come for me, I cannot stay."

The people of Erdatha trade her worn and dirty clothing for clean, and give her a leather jacket that smells of home.

On Parak Ir, they gift her a set of bantos rods, rubbed smooth and gleaming orange and yellow. They rest in a sheath against her back.

The Cherchen teach her how to set a snare, the basics of sling and slingshot. She goes through the gate wearing a bandolier full of throwing spikes.

She leaves behind notes written in flowing script, the ink blotchy on parchment.

_I am a Runner. I was told you can help me._

There's no way to tell who the message is for, or tell them how to find her.

~~~

She still spends most of her time on uninhabited planets, setting up targets and practicing until her arms ache, her pebbles and baked clay pellets scattered in the dirt and leaves. Tree trunks run sticky with sap, pierced over and over with her spikes until her aim is instinctive; she spares no regrets for the coming death of giants.

Six days of practice on as many planets force her to the market on Delgesh, where she trades the pistol for one with a smaller grip.

~~~

Her curves melt away with the days, leaving her whipcord and bone, her body as hard as the look in her eyes. It's enough to catch the eye of a mercenary at the inn on Malkon.

"I am a Runner," she tells him. "I cannot stay."

"I know," he replies, steady and soothing. "I can help you survive. Teach you things you need to know."

She eyes the tattoo on his neck, both familiar and somehow not. "I cannot stay," she says again.

"I know. I'm offering to go with you, if you'll let me."

Instinct and intellect war, making her glance from his blue eyes to the innkeeper and back.

He nods, shifting out of her way. "Go ahead, ask. There are other monsters out there besides the Wraith."

The offer is enough to convince her, but not enough to make her forget the note for the innkeeper.

_I am a Runner. I was told you can help me._

~~~

She thought her life was intense before. 

He pushes intense to insane, moving them three, four, five planets daily, standing watch while she snatches a few hours' sleep. He tests her marksmanship, her skills with sling and spike, drills her in bantos, teaches her to hunt and track, to fight with her hands and feet and mind.

The constant moving kills her time-sense, leaving day and night to bleed together; she sleeps when she has to and eats when hunger becomes a handicap.

He never touches her outside of training.

~~~

By the time the bright orange of autumn ignites the green-gold of Tersal's forest, she's the one pushing their training, her body craving his touch.

~~~

She grows restless on a planet she has no name for, and her stomach will not tolerate food.

He moves them again, to a gate address she does not recognize, and sets up camp beside a stream that's almost a river. Weapons line up on a boulder, gun, sword, knives, rods, sling; his shirt and boots follow.

Confused, she does the same, her own collection smaller both in number and in size.

She understands when the cramping hits, when his hands strip her bare with infinite tenderness and carry her into the water.

~~~

"It wasn't rape," she says in the darkness. The water is cool on her skin, the man holding her hot as a brand. The death she carried unknowingly sweeps away with the current, leaving only an odd, empty ache.

He does not answer, only dribbles water over her neck and shoulders with one hand.

~~~

She sleeps heavily, comforted by his presence. Come morning, she wakes, ravenous, to the scent of tea and roasting meat and frying eggs.

He watches her strip the bird to bones with an expression of amused satisfaction.

"It wasn't rape," she says again, staring into the flames.

"Did you have a choice?" he asks, effortlessly nonjudgemental. It makes her envious.

She can only thin her lips and shake her head.

"Then don't call it anything else."

She doesn't want to agree, but it makes the guilt easier to bear. "I didn't know," she whispers. _I didn't know I was pregnant,_ she means, and can't say. She's not sure she'll ever be able to say them.

"I know. I did." He watches her as her breath catches, then tosses the bones of his own breakfast into the fire.

~~~

He makes her rest, using the time to sharpen his blades, her spikes, roll more pellets for their slings. Lunch is fish baked in mud and wild greens and three kinds of fruit, sweet and tart and tangy. 

She finishes every scrap he puts in front of her, and licks her fingers clean. She rinses her hands with the last of her water, then buries herself under his jacket again, hiding from the sun; offering to help clean up would be an insult.

~~~

It's the first time she's seen two sunsets on the same planet, and it makes her uneasy and somehow sad. "Is that why you won't touch me?" she asks, poking at the fire with a stick. Shame hunches her shoulders.

"Look at me," he says. He sighs when she refuses, and moves to kneel beside her. One finger touches her chin, lifting her head. "Little bird, where I come from, the only crime worse than rape is treason."

She licks her lips and stares; his face is half lost in shadow, half crimson in the firelight. The wind moves his chestnut hair as if it is a fire itself. And she is suddenly, inexplicably aware of how much power he holds, how little her new-won skills would matter if he thought to force her. That knowledge doesn't make her feel any less safe.

"Yes, that's why I don't touch you, but not for the reason you think." He reaches up with his free hand, careful as with a downy chick, and cups the side of her face. "You are still learning. Still see yourself as a victim. I will not touch you until you can defend yourself, little bird."

She swallows hard, pressing her face against his hand. "What if I don't want to defend myself against you?"

His lips twitch upwards in a smile. "Then you have a little more incentive to learn, don't you?"

She stifles a groan as something inside clenches with want.

~~~

In the morning, she picks the destination. He follows, eyes wary, hand on his gun.

The camp remains, scattered by animals and a pathetic attempt to fight.

She feels only a vague sense of satisfaction at the sight of mummified corpses.

He leaves her side without a word, and goes to gather what's left of the supplies. Only the energy pistols are deemed worth taking, tucked in his belt. And the leather bag of stones, red and green and blue.

He pours a small fortune in raw gems into her cupped hands. "Stolen, probably."

"Yes." She stares at them for a moment before tipping them back into their bag, then at the corpses one last time. "I stayed too long."

"Good."

~~~

They spend an afternoon at the Delgesh market trading half the gems for other things: spices, dyes, medicines, currency from half a dozen more civilized worlds.

She leaves a message there, with one of the local barkeeps.

_I am a Runner. I was told you can help me._

~~~

They find Litaven ankle-deep in snow, and go back through the gate to Wetak Nal. 

"I am a Runner," she says, her partner silent. "I cannot stay, the Wraith will come for me."

They nod acceptance of the warning, and refuse to turn her away.

She trades the two scratched knives for a blanket, thick and warm, and packets of scarlet dye for winter clothes so blue they make her look fragile.

Bargaining done, she's ushered off to the baths by the women, fussed over and pampered. Her hair is washed and trimmed, ragged ends evened out and hidden in a simple braid that just brushes her shoulders. She dresses in her new clothes, high-necked shirt and trousers, leather boots lined in fur; she's offered a vial of scented oil, and touches it to wrist and neck.

It's the first time she's felt truly clean in ages, and she makes sure to tell them so, thanking them for the hospitality as they share a meal.

They let her keep the oil.

She leaves a note in its stead.

_I am a Runner. I was told you can help me._


	2. Chapter 2

Narran is in deep winter when they arrive, forest blanketed in white and eerily silent. He slips through the trees like a wraith, letting her stumble along behind him until she learns to pick up her feet and step in his tracks.

Grumbling, she scoops up a double handful of snow, packing it single-mindedly. It hits him in the back of the neck and splatters over his jacket.

He chuckles good-naturedly and shakes himself, but offers no retaliation.

"You could have said something."

"Little bird, some lessons are learned better by doing, not by hearing." He pauses to lift a branch out of her way; she waits for the snow weighing it down to slide off in wet clumps. "Besides, next time, you're breaking trail."

She shoots him a caustic look that he doesn't see. "I have smaller feet than you do."

"I said I would teach you what you need to know. I never said it would be easy."

"Or make sense, apparently."

~~~

Distant howling breaks the silence; he stops so abruptly she barrels into him and nearly falls.

"What is that?" Fear edges her voice and widens her eyes.

"Something that shouldn't be anywhere near here." Another howl echoes the first, off to their right; the first answers. "Fly, little bird, back to the gate!" He gives her a gentle shove.

She runs as best she can, kicking up the snow, uncertain ground throwing her off balance over and over. The howls are closer now, voices raised in terrifying song as more join the hunt.

The Wraith inspire a different kind of fear.

"We're. Not. Going. To. Make. It." The wind whips the words behind her.

"Stop then."

"Stop?!" She does it anyways, catching herself against a tree. 

He grabs her unceremoniously by arm and hip and hoists her upwards, trusting her to catch the lowest branch before letting go and swinging himself up beside her. "Keep going." 

She nods and turns from him, leaning on the trunk as she reaches up for the next branch.

He follows, hands steady, boosting her between branches with knee and shoulder.

~~~

The howling things burst into view, all smoke-and-cream fur and snapping jaws. They move too fast to count, but there must be at least a dozen.

"Now what?" she whispers, watching as they jump, snarling in frustration.

"Now? Now we kill them." He suits deed to determination, and sinks a throwing knife into a furry throat.

It coughs once and dies; its companions pause, then raise their heads and howl in chorus. A second falls, and a third before the pack realizes their vulnerability.

"Blaster?"

"You don't want to smell these once they burn. Trust me."

"Joy." Her hands slip from her pistol to her bandolier, and she braces herself; she meets a pair of too-green eyes and lets fly one of her spikes.

~~~

The easy kills are over quickly, seven bodies lying in the snow. The rest circle the tree, yipping and snarling, keeping their heads low.

"Go for the hip or shoulder."

"Got it," she mutters. Her first target stumbles and jerks its head up; a blade finds its throat before it can recover.

Then it's just another exercise, the targets moving more than usual, and less predictably.

She counts sixteen as the last stumbles to its death; only two spikes remain in her bandolier.

He tips back his head and howls in eerie imitation. 

She jerks back in fear at the sound, barely catching herself, and stares while he listens.

The forest is silent again.

~~~

She wants nothing more than to collapse and spend the night trembling in reaction.

Instead, they spend hours tramping through the snow, hauling the carcasses into the trees; he pries a few claws from the last.

Then, by mutual agreement, they leave Narran behind.

~~~

"Were you scared?" The words are muffled against his throat; his arms tighten around her briefly and she feels his lips against her scalp.

"Anyone who would say no is a fool or a liar. I am not a fool."

She laughs softly, sad and broken. "Just a liar, then." She knows better than to think that true.

"Mm. When I have to. But not about this."

"No," she whispers, squirming in pointless effort to get closer before settling again. "Not about this."

~~~

Dawn breaks without sleep, the first she's seen of the three spent here. It holds no beauty, tension lingering, fear too slow to fade.

~~~

On Tagren, he trades one wicked claw and a hastily drawn map for stacks of market credit, then gives her half.

"Was it worth it?" she asks, relief tightening her throat, then fans her share out. The wooden strips bear markings she cannot read; they mean nothing to her.

His jaw tightens. "No. Makes it easier, but...no." Then he points to the credits in her hand, and tells her what each mark means.

She listens intently, setting values to memory. "You aren't going to tell me, are you?" she asks then, unable to resist.

"Tell you what?"

"Didn't think so," she mumbles under her breath. She'll have to live with not knowing why they'd gone to Narran.

~~~

He watches as she buys a dozen knives, a short sword; satisfied with her purchase, he adds a pair of tiny spikes to his own collection. They leave the weaponsmith smiling over a handful of credits, and frowning in concerned confusion over a note.

_I am a Runner. I was told you can help me._

~~~

She frowns over jars of leaves and powders and oils; very few are familiar to her.

"Can I help you?" The stall owner is an older woman, sharp-eyed and knowing.

Uncertain, she falls back on habit. "I am a Runner. I cannot stay--"

"Yes, you have that look about you."

She swallows, glancing across the lane for her partner; his back is turned, hands gesturing as he speaks with another merchant.

"He yours?" the woman asks, amused.

She doesn't know how to answer.

"Not yet then, I take it."

"No." She watches as bottles are pulled out of a box and filled, listening for explanations and counting out payment. "Thank you," she says finally, painfully awkward and disturbed at how easily she'd been read.

"No need. Good luck with him. You're very lucky."

"Yes." She can't keep herself from smiling. "Yes, I am."

~~~

His eyes gleam with humor when they meet two stalls down, and she feels her face heat, her body clench.

~~~

Her credits are gone by the time they leave, spent on herbs and tea and candy, scented soap and other small luxuries; most of his are still in his moneybelt.

~~~

She throws herself back into training; he says nothing and humors her need to save face.

~~~

They find Gethat in the aftermath of a culling. She presents herself to what's left of the village council; her litany changes. "I am a Runner. I cannot stay, but I would help however I can." 

There is no debate, nor even a shared glance. "You can best help by leaving."

She nods, bile acrid in her throat, and turns to her partner. "Stay, help them. I will meet you at Malkon when you have finished."

He raises gentle fingers to her temple, and tucks a strand of hair behind her ear. "Two days, little bird. Two days, and I will find you."

Her hand catches his wrist, cups his hand against her cheek. "They need your help more than I. I will be there, or come back." Then she is gone, running back to the Gate.


	3. Chapter 3

She rents a room at the inn for a week, then tries to assuage her anxiety by planet-hopping.

She is still a Runner, and cannot stay.

~~~

Tersal's trees are bare now, the ground dusted with snow. A few hours' work snares a half dozen tallas, dark brown rodents with plush fur.

~~~

On Delgesh, the furrier smiles over the catch and doesn't bother bickering. The price she asks is little enough. She spends it all on her partner: a bag of candied fruit from Eltanith; soap and massage oils, their scent crisp and masculine; a tiny incense burner and incense.

The local barkeep has a note for her; she tucks it into her pouch unread, and leaves another behind.

_I am a Runner. I was told you can help me._

~~~

The note burns a hole in her pouch, but she is worried enough for her partner.

It will wait.

~~~

Goralin is supposed to be empty, its civilization culled to extinction long before, ruins crumbled and overgrown with weeds.

Instead, she finds a single Wraith, and a single Dart, both singed around the edges.

"Don't. Move." Her pistol is steady in her hands, hatred written on her face.

He looks up, golden eyes mild. "And you would be...?"

"I am a Runner," comes out of her mouth before she can think about not answering.

"Then you can consider yourself lucky. I am not a Hunter." He wrinkles his nose in an odd sort of smile. "So you can put that away. I don't intend to harm you."

"You couldn't feed from me if you tried."

He wheezes in laughter. "That is the point in making those like yourself Runners. But feeding is not the only way I could harm you. If," he shrugs, pointing it out again, "I wanted to. Which I do not."

"If not me, then hundreds of other people. Killing you would be a mercy to them."

He stiffens in anger, his eyes going hard. "You are the Runner leaving notes all over the galaxy?"

"How." She takes a deep breath, calming the rage squeezing the breath from her lungs. Her knuckles hurt. "Did you know about that?"

"I have allies among your kind. They have been trying to find you for months." His head tilts to one side. "I could take you to them. Or," and he stops to laugh again, "take them another note."

She stares, straining to pull the trigger, and can't. If he lies, he is but one Wraith; if he tells truth, he is worth too much to kill. "I," she starts, then swallows before continuing, "am afraid I will have to decline." Before she can think twice, she flicks the pistol from kill to stun and fires.

He may be too valuable to kill, but she will not leave a Wraith at her back.

Then, just for the irony, she tucks a note in his belt.

_I am a Runner. I was told you can help me._

~~~

Tense and jittery, she spends the afternoon in mindless labor on Pelgata, helping with the summer harvest. She accepts three melons and a net bag of other fruit as payment, and returns to Malkon to wait.

~~~

The door bangs open carelessly as he stumbles through the opening. He catches himself on the frame and hangs there, weaving in exhaustion.

She's on her feet, across the room before the exclamations of surprise die down, and tucks herself under his arm. "Dinner?"

"No." His voice is raspy, and he coughs; soot and grime cover his face, turning his hair black.

She catches the innkeeper's eye, and guides him to the bath.

It's her turn to be caretaker, and she strips him of weapons, then of clothes, and washes him clean of Gethat.

He sleeps wrapped around her, nose tucked in the nape of her neck.

~~~

Still weary, he wakes just after dawn; she twists in his arms, and presses a chaste kiss to his brow.

She leaves him dozing while she packs, leaving the incense burner for last.

Midmorning, he follows her from the inn wordlessly, barely noticing as she hands the innkeeper another note.

_I am a Runner. I was told you can help me._

~~~

They spend two days by the stream she thinks of as theirs. He spends the first in restless slumber, waking from nightmares at her touch.

The second they spend in training, but his eyes are haunted.

Her bantos rods are on the ground long before sunset; she kneels beside them, head bowed. She can no longer bear to let him use her to punish himself.

He says nothing about Gethat.

She doesn't ask, only climbs to her feet and goes to gather dinner.

~~~

Litaven is in the first blush of spring before he visits another populated world.

She asks discreetly about Gethat, and hears tales of small wizened bodies, the village abandoned for other worlds.

He reads the knowledge in her eyes; training leaves her bruised and aching, him bloody and smoldering with self-hate.

"I am a Runner." She lifts her chin stubbornly, one hand pressed to her ribs. "You can't protect me forever."

He licks his lips, tasting blood, and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. "No, little bird, I can't. Not even from myself."

~~~

Memories of Gethat purged, he sleeps hard.

She sits, knees drawn to her chest, feeding twigs to the fire. Two moons are gone, the third near the horizon, before she remembers the note she'd gotten back on Delgesh, and pulls it from her pouch.

_We are looking for you._

It is not news; the Wraith had said as much.

The parchment turns to ash in seconds.


	4. Chapter 4

The sun is high overhead before she wakes, groggy and unsettled. Vague memories of being carried to her bedroll slip away as she rises and silently goes to the stream.

She returns clean and damp, wet hair plastered to her skull, and sets down a cluster of fruit as her contribution toward breakfast.

He doesn't look up from the fire, poking the roasting fish with his knife. "I've seen a lot of Wraith kills. I've been to worlds culled to nothing, I've been back to Sateda." His jaw clenches. "I've never known them to feed on children before."

It's as much of an apology as she's going to get.

~~~

They arrive on Tessinor Kal just in time for a wedding; he watches in rueful amusement as the young women drag her off.

She comes back with a smile of good-natured irritation; her hair's arranged in the local style, half in tiny beaded braids, the rest woven through with bright silk ribbons.

They stay just long enough to congratulate the couple, leaving tiny bottles of spices as tokens.

And a note.

_I am a Runner. I was told you can help me._

The gate barely closes behind them before she's pulling ribbons loose, coiling them around the hilt of her sword. She keeps the braids, liking the way the beads slide against her neck.

~~~~

"Teach me to kill Wraith," she asks.

He stumbles, rhythm broken; she lands a blow to his hip before he can recover, and a second to his upper arm. Then he's down, rolling away and back up on his feet.

She squints, sun in her eyes, and raises one bantos rod to shield herself from the glare.

"Killing changes you, little bird." He gives no other warning, sending her on the defensive with a lunge.

She pivots out of the way and winces, pulling her arm free as their rods lock. The sun is in her eyes again, and she lets him back her up, twirling the rods in her hands idly. "I already have," she says softly.

"That's different," he says, ending on a grunt as he attacks again.

She parries and strikes back. "You're teaching me how to kill people, humans like you and me. The Wraith made me a Runner. I never would have--" She breaks off, somersaulting backwards and into a crouch, then lunges beneath his arms and tackles him to the ground.

He has her disarmed and pinned before she can catch her breath, one arm twisted up behind her back.

She rests her cheek in the dirt for a moment before trying to meet his eye over her shoulder. "Nothing we can do will bring back those children. But you can teach me to kill Wraith." Panting, she lets her head drop back to the ground and spits dust and grass from her lips.

And there'll be one more person trying to keep it from happening again. He can hear it, though she'll never give it voice.

~~~

He adds dead and dying worlds to the list: Hoff, Lerran, Firal Dek. 

Fighting hand-to-hand against the Wraith is not an option she can afford to take. Instead, he teaches her to set tripwires, rig explosives and traps among the ruins. 

Her fingers are useless, the knuckles scraped and swollen, before he's satisfied. But she can manage without error, blindfolded, one-handed and shaking with fatigue.

~~~

The stones are eerily silent in the Irsat mill when the bandits come, the sounds of screams and stunners drowning out the gentle groans of water-stressed wood.

They drop their tools, discarding makeshift weapons for familiar, and race back to the village proper, dodging panicked women and children trying to reach the marginal safety of the inn, the tavern, the village barn.

"Shoot to kill," he yells at her, ducking as a badly-aimed blast goes over his head.

She's never killed before, and can't bring herself to now, this rag-tag bunch of men in mismatched leather and armor, weapons scavenged from who-knows-where. Not until one of them shoves one of the village women face-first into a wall, letting her crumple helplessly to the ground while he scoops her screaming, terrified son over his shoulder.

The shot comes easy then, the toddler's short fall cushioned by the dead body beneath him. The child pays no attention to the bloodstains on his clothes, instead kneeling beside his mother, poking her shoulder and begging her to wake up.

There is no hesitation after that, neither time nor room for regret, and there is nothing left but the bandits and the villagers, her partner and the weapons in her hand.

The bandits aren't expecting resistance; three lie dead in the square, a fourth trying to crawl away on a ruined knee when the leader calls for retreat.

"They went after the children," he says softly, answering her unasked question.

Righteous fury hardens her gaze, steadies her hands as she takes aim; the leader spins around with a hit to the shoulder, goes down hard as her partner's shot finds his thigh, his chest.

The rest are easy pickings, cut down long before they get to the Gate.

~~~

The aftermath is more difficult than she expected, and easier than she'd hoped, the bandits stripped of gear before being dragged downwind to be burned, the villagers assembling in the tavern for a headcount, only to be sent out again to find those gone missing.

The men straggle in from the Gate, from the fields, nursing stunner headaches, bruised or cracked ribs, a broken arm. The woman she'd seen felled wakes dazed and disoriented, her nose broken, a knot swelling on her forehead.

The villagers are lucky, incredibly lucky not to have lost anyone, but this day would live on in their memories, in nightmares; she could not afford to stay and help. It is all she can do to withstand the awful gratitude in their eyes, even half-hidden behind her partner's shoulder, and all they can do to keep the villagers from impoverishing themeselves in thanks. 

It's a relief when, late that afternoon, they can retreat to the mill and finish the repairs they'd agreed to in the first place; it's the only work they'll accept payment for.

They sleep uneasily that night, cradled in down-filled mattresses, listening to the cries and whimpers of the children they'd fought to save, the soothing words of parents and siblings trying to hide their own lingering fears.

As if the Wraith aren't enough for them to fear.

~~~

Morning finds them on edge, anxious, unwilling to leave, unable to stay. The mill is repaired, wheel turning smoothly; something far worse is left in disrepair.

He leaves a note behind, Malkon's Gate address, the innkeep's name, in case they should need further help.

She leaves her own, and hopes she doesn't come to regret it.

_I am a Runner. I was told you can help me._

~~~

They raid what's left of Sateda for supplies hidden away during the resistance.

It leaves him tense and silent, eyes bleak.

She can only wonder what it was like, alive and prosperous; her respect for the dead keeps her from asking.

~~~

The town on Kadera is little more than an outpost for mercenaries, soldiers, and scum. What women are there are hard, warriors in leather and chain, weapons at the ready, or whores worn old before their time.

The men are a mixed lot. Some nod respectfully as they pass, a few saluting in recognition; others watch speculatively, a gleam of greed or lust in their eyes.

The latter group find better things to do after she breaks three fingers on the hand that dares touch her, then steps over the body as he writhes in pain.

Her partner doesn't look back, just leads her to a door at the end of a blind alley.

There's a woman at the desk in the antechamber; tattoos march down the column of her neck as she looks up. "I heard you'd taken-"

"You heard correctly," he cuts the woman off. "I will need marks for her." And he tilts his head back towards her. "I need her on the books."

"Marks?" she asks in confusion.

The stranger laughs, pushing herself to her feet. "Yes, marks." Her fingers spread themselves over her tattoos.

She blinks, glancing between the two. Then, "And if I don't want them?"

"Then you can keep breaking fingers all over the galaxy," he says, and she can hear the laughter beneath the words. "This is easier."

Uncertain, she lets herself be ushered into room down the hall; the stranger takes her by the chin, turning her head this way and that. She's completely unnerved by the time they're finished, her neck still clean of ink.

She leaves no note behind; she wants no memories of the place, much less record of her having been here.

They'll come back for her tattoos when they're ready.


End file.
